


Who Wouldn't Go?

by isozyme



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Christmas Party, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isozyme/pseuds/isozyme
Summary: “But it’ll help you?” Steve asks.“Yes,” Tony replies, even as he knows this is going to break his fragile, smitten heart.  Steve, on his arm, coming up with some sweet story of how they met, having to pretend to Steve afterwards that it had all been an act on Tony’s part as well, cock-blocked Tantalus hoist on his own petard.“Then I’ll do it,” Steve says.  “Anything for -- for a friend.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 431
Collections: You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	Who Wouldn't Go?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nigmuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nigmuff/gifts).



> Happy fandom stocking, Big Mugs! I hope you enjoy these dummies fake dating at a fancy Christmas party. <3

Tony panicked for _one second._ That’s why he’s currently in this disaster. Sunset had been pushing at him, plucking at his weak spots, and he’d been feeling particularly alone and wistful, and he’d gotten the wires labeled “babble for time in front of Sunset Bain” and “guilty romantic fantasies,” crossed in his head.

Now he needs to ask Steve for a spectacularly embarrassing favor.

Steve is installed, cross-legged, on the living room floor next to the coffee table. It’s two weeks before Christmas and as usual Steve is determined to dress the tree properly. Spread in front of him are bowls of cloves, swags of gold-trimmed satin ribbon, and a mesh bag full of oranges.

He’s already made at least a hundred yards of cranberry and popcorn garland, and is now on to pomanders. While Tony procrastinates in the doorway, Steve wraps an orange in ribbon, then runs a chunky needle threaded with twine through the center of the fruit to make a loop for hanging. He turns the trussed-up orange in his big hands and presses cloves through the rind with an artist’s precise eye for distance and alignment.

“You know,” Tony says, tearing his attention away from Steve’s capable hands and entering the living room properly, “I was going to make tiny animatronic doves that sing Greensleeves, but this is pretty good too.”

Steve looks up at him and his face breaks into a smile that makes his entire face glow. Tony’s heart flutters, even though he knows Steve looks at everyone like that. Steve’s face is an open window into the bright core of goodness inside him. Even though it’s not special, not for him, Tony still wants to kiss that smile onto his face every night, wants to wake up and meet Steve’s gaze next to him in bed and see his eyes light up with love.

_Down, boy,_ Tony thinks sternly. _Now is not the time to be a besotted idiot._

Steve would never stoop to date Tony. Tony spent an agonizing six months hoping after learning that Steve wasn’t actually straight — the thing between Steve and Batroc the Leaper apparently ran hotter than typical hero-vs-villain banter — but eventually Tony had come to his stupid lovestruck senses, and realized that just because Steve was attracted to men didn’t mean he was attracted to _Tony._ Sure, Tony Stark is New York’s most eligible bachelor, but Steve knows the real Tony: messed up, alcoholic Tony who never feels strong unless he’s wrapped himself in steel.

“I’d love to see your robot birds,” Steve says warmly. “They’ll look nice with all the tinsel.”

Steve loves tinsel. The little silver strands get everywhere, but Tony can’t help but indulge Steve. Thor, a walking generator of static electricity, gets covered in the stuff and leaves tangles like metallic hair in the showers.

Now Tony has to make a few dozen lifelike, singing robot-doves before Christmas, because he wants Steve to look at his creations the way he looks at a tinsel-drenched tree, misty-eyed and happily sentimental.

Tony is _not_ sentimental about his childhood Christmases. He’ll settle for basking in Steve’s nostalgia.

“Sit on down, come help me pincushion these poor oranges,” Steve says, patting the carpet next to him.

“My spine is not made of the same stuff yours is.”

Steve snorts. “Pretty sure mine is bone just like everyone else’s.”

“Incorrect,” Tony says. “Your spine is made of an amazing super-bendy-yet-load-bearing polymer that science has been unable to replicate so far. My back is made out of dry spaghetti and dust bunnies.”

Really, Tony is temporizing because sitting next to Steve on the floor, able to smell his aftershave, close enough to sneak a brush against his shoulder, is possibly the worst position for Tony to ask this favor from. Curse his stupid, _stupid_ mouth.

Now it’s going to be awkward if he doesn’t sit.

“You could sit in my lap if that’s more comfortable. I’ve heard I make an excellent, if rather firm, cushion,” Steve jokes, patting one thigh. His cheeks go pink for some reason.

Tony considers taking Steve up on that option for exactly one self-indulgent nanosecond, then gets grabs both his heart and his libido by the scruff of the neck and hurls them out the window.

“It’s alright, I’ll take the floor and hope for a Christmas miracle to keep me away from the chiropractor,” Tony says quickly.

Steve hands Tony an orange to decorate. The smell of orange and cloves soaks into Tony’s hands, heady and festive. When these are all hung on the two-story silver fir in the foyer, the entire grand staircase will smell just like this.

Okay. Tony can do this. _Just ask him._

“I need you to be my date for the Christmas Gala at the Rockefeller,” Tony says.

_Don’t ask him like that!_

“Not a real date,” Tony adds, and Steve sags with what Tony is certain is relief. “Sunset Bain was angling to be my plus one, and I had to think fast. I told her I was already going with you.”

What Tony had actually said was, “I’m in a relationship, I’m afraid,” which had made Sunset more interested, not less.

She’d pressed and pressed on who the lucky lady was, and Tony had realized that whoever he named would have all of Baintronics dropped on their head. And he couldn’t think of anyone who could handle that, and he’d been thinking about Steve, Steve cowing Sunset with a single look and a brusque speech about boundaries, and for one shining moment of idiocy Steve seemed like the perfect solution.

“Steve Rogers — he’s an artist,” Tony said. A small, reasonable portion of his mind screamed _bad idea bad idea bad idea!_ even as his mouth formed the words. “You wouldn’t know of him.”

Sunset’s mouth had curled into a faux-sympathetic moue. Tony hated when that was how people reacted to the bisexual thing, it was like they thought he’d been afflicted with a terrible, incurable disease and wanted to be gentle about it. “Oh, I do see why you’ve kept it a secret. But at the gala? You certain you don’t want some cover?”

“No,” Tony’d said icily. He certainly wasn’t going to take Sunset as a _beard._ “Steve and I will be attending together.”

And with those thoughtless words, Tony landed himself in his current, terrible situation.

Tony has to make Steve agree somehow.

Steve fiddles with his clove-studded orange, twisting one of the dark brown buds until it’s too loose to stay in place. He sighs and sifts through the loose cloves, looking for one with a bigger stem, not quite looking at Tony. There’s color high in his cheeks. Tony has embarrassed Captain America: a new achievement for his collection.

Steve is going to say no, and Tony is going to be in hot water. Maybe he can get some other guy to come with him. Put an ad out in the paper for guys named Steve Rogers. New York is a big place — there have to be at least a few gay Steves who’ll jump at the chance to attend a fancy holiday party.

“If you want me, I’ll be there,” Steve says quietly.

_Oh shit._

Tony wasn’t prepared for this eventuality either!

“It’d mean you’d have to come out,” Tony says, backtracking with a wince. “I can’t pressure you into -- that’s not fair of me, I’m sorry, I’ll find another excuse.”

Steve shrugs, then ties a perfect Tiffany bow at the top of his finished pomander. “If I go as Steve Rogers I’m just some guy. I’d be worried about yourself if I were you. You’re _Tony Stark._ ”

“Everyone suspects anyway,” Tony says. Thank you, Ty, for that lovely nudge out of the closet, Tony _totally_ appreciates it. “I’m just saying, it’s a lot just to fix a dumb mistake I made.”

“But it’ll help you?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Tony replies, even as he knows this is going to break his fragile, smitten heart. Steve, on his arm, coming up with some sweet story of how they met, having to pretend to Steve afterwards that it had all been an act on Tony’s part as well, cock-blocked Tantalus hoist on his own petard.

“Then I’ll do it,” Steve says. “Anything for -- for a friend.”

And that’s all it is: friends. Tony is going to hide every single one of his feelings, put on his playboy persona, and get through this as unscathed as possible.

_I’m doomed._

* * *

When they arrive at the holiday gala, Tony expects the ambush of lurking photographers outside, but not the elegant rescue by New York’s gay elite. They close ranks around him and Steve, gracious, friendly, and impenetrable. He had been expecting to come out alone, Tony realizes. These people won’t let that happen. They’ve been waiting for him to join them.

“Edie!” Tony says, delighted, when she bustles up. He bends to exchange air kisses.

“Took you long enough,” Edie says, then chuckles and pats Tony on both shoulders. “Good. You look happy.”

“I am,” Tony says. “Steve, this is Edie Windsor, the best of the little old lesbians.”

They enter the ballroom in a swirl of introductions and brightly-colored dresses.

Inside, the Rockefeller is decorated in gold, cream and burgundy. Tony watches Steve spin around, taking in the grand foyer and sparkling cut-crystal chandeliers. Steve’s been to all sorts of fundraisers and high-society events, but usually as Cap, not Steve. Cap doesn’t get to be delighted by beautiful things.

There’s a towering croquembouche serving as the centerpiece of the refreshments table, cream puffs stacked six feet high, glazed in caramel and dusted with powdered sugar. The theme of tonight’s menu seems to be French patisserie, evidenced by flaky pastry and custard on every plate.

It’s exactly like every other charity dinner, except it’s nothing like them, because Steve is at his elbow the entire time, charming people and doing embarrassing things like pulling Tony’s chair out for him.

_Playboy,_ Tony reminds himself. _Tony Stark found someone beautiful to be on his arm for a night, like he always does. You’re indulging an infatuation. Steve isn’t anything to you but proof you can have anyone._

Tony pats Steve’s arm and tries to appear breezy and maybe a little bit condescending. Steve Rogers is a handsome dalliance, nobody special, just up-and-coming artist who’s never seen luxury like this.

Steve quirks an eyebrow at him, silently asking, _why are you being weird?_

Tony folds immediately, flashing Steve his real grin and bumping up against his shoulder, like they’re playing Risk at the mansion coffee table and there isn’t space on the couch for two superheroes to sit without touching.

His plan to keep things casual hasn’t survived even brief contact with the enemy. It’s a familiar feeling, but usually the adversary is the Melter or something, not his own emotions.

Tony realizes about halfway through dinner that he hasn’t been offered alcohol once all night. Steve’s been deflecting it for him, so skillfully that Tony didn’t even notice. He just didn’t have to think about it for an entire cocktail hour. He’d never had a date do that for him so well. He glances at Steve, who is chatting happily with his neighbor at the table, about the intersection between modern art and technology. Steve makes an insightful point about machine learning, and Tony wonders where he picked up an interest in that.

Then he remembers a rainy afternoon curled up in the library with his laptop while Steve read the latest Octavia Butler collection nearby. The suit’s auto-targeting system was being buggy, and Tony had been mumbling at his code without really noticing that he was doing it until Steve asked a question.

“So how _does_ your suit know who’s an AIM soldier and who’s an Avenger?”

Tony had jumped a bit, then apologized for being distracting, then discovered that Steve’s question was a genuine one.

“It’s a combination of computer vision and me manually picking out targets. Ideally every time I shoot at something it adds that to the database of what’s an enemy and then extrapolates from there, but we’ve been fighting a lot of AIM beekeepers lately and the suit has decided that it hates everything yellow.”

Steve laughed. “After punching enough of those guys, I start hating yellow too.”

“Who wouldn’t? But I’d still like the AI to stop putting crosshairs on every fire hydrant and yield sign.”

Steve asked how he was going to fix that, so Tony had kept up a steady chatter as he went back to coding, assuming that Steve had tuned him out after a few minutes. But he hadn’t -- Steve is still talking about it, stuff Tony only half-remembers saying aloud, as if he’s actually _interested_ in this stuff.

Steve turns and catches Tony staring. He smiles, and for a moment that’s all there is in the world; Steve’s smile is like the sun on Tony’s face as he lifts the faceplate after a long, dim flight.

“Where’d you learn all this?” asks the man beside Steve.

“Tony,” Steve says. “He’s an inspiration to me, every day of my life.”

Tony blushes. _Laying it on a little thick, Steve_. It almost sounds real, when Steve says things like that.

Steve’s just so damn handsome in his suit. Tony wants to peel it off of him and kiss him _all over._ It’s bad enough that Steve is wearing clothes that Tony helped him pick out -- balancing elegance and Steve’s cover as an artist. They’d picked a slightly retro cut for Steve with a truly lovely camel overcoat and fawn driving gloves. Tony hadn’t told Steve how much any of it had cost, shuffling him out of the cedar-scented tailor’s shop before any of the delicate dance around credit cards and prices.

After dinner there’s a few speeches, and then more mingling and dancing while a band plays jazzy Christmas tunes.

Tony doesn’t intend to dance with Steve. He knows that’s an express train to hopeless yearning. Steve is _good_ at dancing. Tony’s had lessons since he was old enough to put on his own shoes, but nobody can measure up to Steve’s natural grace.

But then Tony catches sight of Sunset across the room, and he’s not up for exes. Not when tonight has gone so well so far.

“Care to dance with me?” Tony asks, offering a hand.

Steve puts down the delicate little pastry he’s been munching on and nods. Tony thinks his face might betray literally everything. He’s not that good of an actor. Steve will be able to sense that this is awfully, pathetically real for Tony. Steve looks around for a napkin to wipe away the few crumbs, comes up with nothing, and then -- oh, _hell,_ this isn’t fair -- guiltily licks his fingers.

“Sorry,” he says, thankfully mistaking Tony’s brain having a series of electrical shorts for disapproval about his manners.

Then he takes Tony’s hand, gentle and almost bashful.

Steve is as perfect at dancing as Tony expected. He takes the lead naturally, and Tony lets him, happy to follow. It takes almost an entire song for Steve to realize that he’s dancing with a man and he stutters, trying to let Tony lead for a moment and knocking their knees together.

“Should have asked,” Steve apologizes, spinning Tony deftly towards the corner of the dance floor so they don’t get in anyone’s way. “Haven’t done this with a guy before, really.”

“You keep on just as you were,” Tony says, running one hand over Steve’s shoulder to straighten an imaginary imperfection in his lapel. “I’ll teach you to follow some other time.”

“I’d like that,” Steve says, then looks away and chews his lip as he realizes their mistake. Tony wants to shut his eyes and melt into the marble pillar behind him. There won’t be some other time. This is it.

The song ends, to scattered polite applause.

Steve takes Tony back into his arms and draws him out onto the dance floor for another round. It’s something slow and yearning, exactly what Tony doesn’t need. It’s too late; Tony can’t bring himself to pull away now. He’s just going to have to carry on and break his own heart.

Tony leans into Steve’s broad chest and feels like Cinderella. He should have come as Iron Man -- then he could lose his right thruster boot on the steps and Steve would have to scour the city, searching for someone with a men’s size ten and a half. Too bad Steve already knows who Iron Man is; that would have been very romantic.

“I wish this were real,” Tony whispers, tired and raw from pretending to have what he’s wanted for so long. “Somebody who loved me enough to come out, something just -- easy.”

Steve will understand. He’s watched every relationship where Tony got rolled like the love-blind idiot he is. Tony can say this and Steve won’t guess who it’s really about. And Steve won’t make fun of him for being soft, because Steve is good and kind and more than someone like Tony can ever deserves. He can tell Steve that he wants to be held like this every night.

Steve swallows and clears his throat. “You’ll find that. I promise, Tony. And until then, you can have me.”

“Only until midnight,” Tony says with a sigh. “Then you’re going to turn into a pumpkin.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how the story goes.”

“Wanda is my fairy godmother. She made you out of a scarecrow wrapped in an American flag. I should have told you before.”

“Whatever you say, Shellhead,” Steve says, quietly enough that nobody around can hear the incriminating nickname. Tony thinks he feels Steve turn his head to kiss Tony’s hair above his ear, but Steve must just be scanning the perimeter. Surely -- surely he wouldn’t do that just for appearances. It can’t be, no matter how much he wishes --

Tony’s never going to know, because at that moment half a dozen goons in AIM beekeeper suits crash through a window, riding genetically modified reindeer. Instead of yellow, the uniforms are dyed a festive green. Of course.

_I guess this is happening now._ Might as well.

At least it will free Tony from his self-inflicted romantic agony.

* * *

“You finally asked Steve out and you didn’t tell me?” Jan says, kicking Tony’s ankle under the breakfast table.

“I didn’t!” Tony protests, startled and pre-coffee.

“That’s not what I heard,” Jan says, taking a large bite of Boston cream doughnut. When Tony tries to explain, Jan waves the remaining half doughnut at him to shut up and keeps talking, mouth full. “Got a call that there’d be some Avengers public relations wrangling coming up with respect to you, specifically with respect to your date to the Rockefeller Christmas Gala vis a vis his gender. And then I learn from _Instagram_ that it’s Steve!”

“It’s not -- “

“Are we even _friends,_ Tony? Friends tell friends when they go on dates with men they’ve been pining over for years!”

“Years?” Tony croaks, because while Jan is technically correct about the duration of Tony’s crush, he never told her anything of the sort. He’d kept the whole Steve situation under wraps, even to the Avengers, out of fear that he’d disrupt the team dynamic and also to spare everyone a lot of embarrassment. 

Now, Tony wishes he’d told Jan about this plan. That way she wouldn’t be teasing him about it when he’s already sore from the party, and also sore from taking a rack of AIM-deer antlers to the chest last night. Tony is one big tender spot this morning.

“I’m happy for you, you big dummy,” Jan says, then takes another bite of doughnut, beaming at him while she chews.

“I didn’t ask Steve on a date!” Tony says. Jan’s face falls. Tony hates to disappoint Jan, but if it’s any consolation Tony’s plenty disappointed too.

“Not a real one -- it’s not like that, we’re not like that. I needed someone to ward off Sunset, and he wanted to help. We’re not dating,” Tony explains miserably. 

To Tony’s surprise, Jan reaches for his hand and says, “Oh, Tony, I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry! It’s fine you made a mistake about me and Steve. It’ll be a good story, you know? That time we pretended to be together to save my reputation.” Tony laughs and tries to grin but it comes out misty-eyed.

“Why don’t you tell him how you feel?” Jan asks, ignoring Tony’s flawless explanation and squeezing both his hands with her own.

“We’re just friends,” Tony protests. “And if I told him something, he wouldn’t want me _back._ So there’s no point.”

“Here,” Jan says, pushing a glossy photo of Steve and Tony towards him, weaving it around the orange juice and the box of doughnuts on the table. It looks like Jan’s torn a page out of a daily gossip rag to show everyone.

“Look at Steve’s face,” Jan says.

Steve does look awfully happy. Nobody is obviously watching him; Tony isn’t even paying attention, he’s shaking Fujiwara’s hand and probably saying something about Stark International. Steve’s wearing a small, wistful smile, and his hand is tucked against the small of Tony’s back. To the uninformed observer, they could be a couple in the blush of early love.

At that moment, Steve walks in. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, still wet from a shower. He leans over Tony to pick up the orange juice and pour himself a glass, then rests a friendly hand on Tony’s shoulder, looking down at the picture.

“Look at that, it’s us,” Steve says, and he’s wearing the same small, wistful smile from the picture in real life.

Jan makes significant eye contact with Tony that clearly conveys _do you see this proving my point?_

“We make quite the convincing act, don’t we?” Tony says. He’ll never admit it, but he loves Steve’s casual touch. Sometimes he pretends that it’s more than camaraderie. When he’s feeling especially weak he imagines that this is what it would be like if they’d been together for years, easy and domestic together every morning.

Jan mouths, _you idiot, tell him!_

Steve chuckles, then sighs and takes his hand away. “Wish I could stay, but I’ve got to go volunteer at the library.”

As he goes, he pauses and reaches out to tuck a curl of Tony’s hair into place over his ear, in the exact place he’d almost-maybe brushed a kiss the night before. Tony clamps down on his reflex to shiver.

Across the table, Jan’s eyebrows rise.

“Uh -- bit of lint,” Steve says, going pink. “I got it.”

* * *

The thing that breaks the delicate balance between Steve and Tony isn’t Jan’s unsubtle encouraging looks, nor is it the explosion of Twitter speculation in the days following the gala. It’s the unholy ubiquity of Christmas carols.

Tony’s sitting in the living room a few days later, flipping through the manual for the television and trying to figure out what he has to rewire to make the universal remote’s volume buttons finally work. Steve is at the table, hand-writing Christmas cards. The radio pipes _O Holy Night_ s and _Jingle Bell Disco_ s over the tableau.

Then the song changes to something familiar -- the same song Steve and Tony had danced to. Tony looks instinctively to Steve and finds Steve looking right back at him. They hang in agonizing stillness, the moment teetering in unstable equilibrium.

Steve screws the cap back onto his pen and sets it down on the table. The click is crisp under the familiar melody.

Tony’s voice is rough even to his own ears. 

“Care to dance?”

* * *


End file.
